


His Second Wind

by Billy_Butcher



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Billy Butcher is a tragic character, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt, Male Friendship, Past Rape/Non-con, Swearing, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, diabolical, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billy_Butcher/pseuds/Billy_Butcher
Summary: Pain follows Butcher wherever he goes. The Boys help him find his second wind.
Relationships: Becca Butcher/Billy Butcher
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: explicit swearing, emotional angst, spoilers for season 2 of The Boys, references to past rape, and did I mention explicit swearing? I also live in the UK, so I'm sorry if I butcher (pardon the pun) any American terms/words. This chapter hasn't been proofread. If you see any obvious mistakes please do let me know.

“He’s a fuckin' Supe freak!” 

Billy regrets his words as soon as they leave him. Not because he doesn’t believe in them. He believes in what he said, alright. There’s no way the kid is even halfway normal. He’s Homelander’s little bastard. He even has his daddy’s freakish glowing red eyes. Yeah, there may be a bit of Becca in him too, but not enough for Billy to look past what he really is; Vought’s latest 100-billion-dollar cash cow. They’ll never let him go, and as it turns out, neither will Becca.  
  
She exhales and he knows he’s fucked up on a colossal scale. There are some things that you can never take back. Things that linger in the air long after they’ve been spoken. He can feel his words building a wall between them, brick by impenetrable brick. _This isn’t how it’s meant to go_ ; _this isn’t how it’s fucking meant to go_ , he thinks, and he fumbles clumsily for a way out of the hole he’s dug himself.  
  
“Fuck, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He desperately grasps for control of the situation but he knows there’s no taking back, no second chances, not after the blow he’s just delivered. She isn’t buying into his bullshit. He doesn’t blame her. It’s a miracle she ever did in the past. She’s his miracle. He needs her. He has to try and make her understand. “Becca, Becca please. Come with me.”  
  
“You were wrong about me; do you know that?”  
  
Her eyes flash with anger and it’s like looking at a stranger. On the surface, she appears to be the Becca he knows, her voice vibrates with the same fiery passion he loves and misses, but at the same time she’s not Becca at all. At least, she’s not a version he recognises.

“You put me on this pedestal. The truth is, I never knew how to save you. You were always one day away from pounding someone to death in a parking lot.”

“That’s not true.”  
  
Any illusion of control disappears. He averts his gaze. Looking at her hurts too fucking much. Or maybe the truth hurts too much. Right now, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Billy, he raped me and when I found out I was pregnant I went to Vought. I didn’t come to you.”

Years of lies, deceit, and unknowns falls away. He clenches his hands into fists. His nails dig sharp crescent moons into his palms. It stings but not nearly as much as her confession. Red blemishes bloom beneath his fingertips. The pain anchors him to the moment. He uses it to control his rising tide of anger.

“I didn’t come to you because I was scared, because I knew you would chase after him and you would seek revenge and it wouldn’t be good for anybody.” He wants to comfort her but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands there like a dick, guts twisting in agony, teeth grinding together as he tries to stop himself from losing his shit entirely.

Becca is scared, but right now it’s not because of Vought, or a cunt in a cape, it’s because of the one person he can’t protect her from; himself. He knows he’s not pretty. His past is fifty shades of chequered grey but all of that isn’t exactly a secret. He’d confided in her, hadn’t he? Spilled his guts out to her, bloody as they were. He’d even told her about little Lenny. Maybe that was a mistake. He could see that now. Maybe if he’d held that part of himself back Becca would have confided in him, not the bastards that had kept her hidden away in this fucking fortress.  
  
When she’d married him, she’d known he was a loose cannon. He always has been, way before Vought or Becca going missing. Way before Dorian the wanker broke his brother’s nose, even. That used to be the reason she loved him. There was a time, long ago, when she’d pull him into a kiss and she’d call him her “bit of rough”. Those days are gone. He aches for her. He wants her to kiss him one more time, to reassure him that no matter what, they would always have each other, but instead he watches in horror as she shrinks away from him.

“I love you.” He whispers, as though that is enough to salvage the situation. If he were a protagonist in a Hollywood movie those words would end with them running off into the perfect sunset, but this ain’t no damn Hollywood movie, and no amount of endearments will be enough to repair the damage he’s inflicted.  
  
“I love you.” She chokes out and he doesn’t doubt if for a minute but he can’t help but think; _then fucking come with me._ Her soft hands gently caress his weathered face. “The hate that you carry, the warpath that you’re on, it started so long before me. I can’t-“

She’s right, of course. He’s on a warpath and he isn’t going to stop. He wishes he knew how to stop. _Make it stop, Becks_ , he begs silently, _because I ain’t got a fucking clue how to_. He leans into the caress, cataloguing the way her touch feels, not wanting to forget a damn thing about her.

She wraps her arms around him. He never wants her to let go because if she does, he knows that’s it. Game over. Vought wins. Homelander wins. Butcher fucking loses. Again. Why does he always have to be on the losing side? But her grip does loosen. She kisses his cheek with a tenderness that he doesn’t deserve and slips away like a fading apparition.

The mechanical jolt of the car door urges him to do something, anything, to get her to come with him. He places a hand on top of the door, desperate to get through to her. “Becks, I’m not leaving without you.”

“Just go, please.” She sobs and reveals a Vought branded tracking device. “Every guard in this god damned place is going to be here in sixty seconds. You have to go. Please!” The car engine ignites and she looks at him sorrowfully, pleading for him to understand, but there isn’t a part of him that can even begin to process what is happening. “I’m so sorry,” 

He’s powerless to stop her from driving away. It’s too late, too fucking late, and ain’t that been the main running theme in his life? He was too late to save his brother, too late to save Mallory’s grandkids, and now, to top off the shit cherry on the shit ice-cream sundae, too late to save his wife from Vought’s vice-like grip.

By the time the guards show up Butcher is buried under a heap of stuffed binbags. He’s too numb to pay the stench any mind. The garbage truck jostles as it turns out of the compound’s gates. Something tumbles onto his head. A strip of thick, white liquid dribbles onto his face. Splash. A droplet lands near the corner of his mouth. He swipes at it and discovers it’s spoiled milk. He turns and Homelander’s smug smile greets him. The Supe has two thumbs pointed up at the words: “Dairy drinkers are the real heroes”

“Cunt.” Butcher grouses, his lips forming a thin, vengeance-bent line. “Bet you’re lovin’ this ain’t ye? Locked away in your fuckin' ivory tower. You wait, you flying prick. Just you fuckin' wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes out to CorporalCupcake, KaiDexter and the four guests that left kudos on chapter one! I also want to thank PandoraHeart20 for bookmarking this story! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Explicit swearing, bar fighting, and angst. I don't have a beta reader. If you see any obvious mistakes please let me know.

Butcher is drawn to the nearest shithole like a moth to a fucking flame. He’s not been to this particular one before but he knows the scene. As though he were a well-versed actor, he shoves past a cast of disreputable characters, and takes his centre-stage spot in front of the bar. Live music crashes over him; some shouty, new-age revolution shit. He has to yell to make himself heard above the intense, rage-fuelled beats. It’s too loud to think. He’s grateful for the distraction.

“Don’t care what, love!” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a wad of dollars, and flings it at the bartender. “Just keep em’ pourin’.” Blunt, to the point, and not at all in the mood for small talk, he shoots her his signature death glare.

She pushes the money into her bra and wordlessly fills a glass. He grasps it and shoots it back in one fell swoop. By the time he slams it down onto the counter, there’s another drink waiting for him. He makes quick work of that one, too.

Butcher’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and his gut clenches as Hughie’s young, innocent face appears. He lets the call ring through to voicemail, then presses the speaker against his ear and listens back to the message.  
  
 _“Hey Butcher…um…I know you’re probably off…doing who knows what. I just wanted to say that you leaving us all in the dark again…it’s a really shitty move. I know you probably don’t care. I mean, why the fuck would you? You’ll probably rock back up any moment now and you’ll be like…daddy’s home. That sounds weird when I say it. In fact, it’s weird when you say it. Um…my point is, I’m sick of being left out, Butcher. Would it kill you to let someone in?”_

The end message tone bleeps. Butcher exhales through his nose, eyes closed, expression contorted, a lump of guilt caught in his throat. M.M had been right. Hughie is his canary. The trouble is, Hughie ain’t his first tweetie pie. Lenny had been that to him once too, and where had that ended him, aye? Dead as a fuckin’ dodo, that’s where. This time, Butcher decides, has to be different. His canary deserves better. All of his boys deserve better.

Clink. Another drink. He doesn’t know what he expects to find at the bottom of it but he dives in headfirst. As he swallows the burning liquor, he promises that he’s going to let Hughie go. It’s time for the baby bird to fly free. Hopefully, for Hughie’s sake, he would fly as far away from Butcher’s shitstorm excuse of a life as possible.

His phone vibrates three more times. The buzzing goes ignored. Had Butcher bothered to listen the series of messages, he may have been aware of Hughie’s growing concern.

* * *

**Unheard message:**

_“It’s me. Again. I don’t need to tell you that. You know me. Sorry…I just wanted to check in with you. How are you… doing? I know how much this means to you but it isn’t just your fight, you know? Vought stole my life from me, too. Damn it, Butcher, you shouldn’t have to do this alone. This is me reaching out to you, I guess. Maybe you could try reaching back? “_

**Unheard message:**

_“I’m not sure why I’m bothering leaving another message. You’re probably just going to ignore it like the others. Could you maybe drop the vigilante lone wolf act? Please? It’s like you said, we’re nothing when we’re apart but together we can be the god dammed spice girls! And right now, we’re missing our scary spice, and let’s face it, I’m baby spice and what use is baby spice on her own? We need you. I need you. Just…think on it, okay?”_

**Unheard message:**

_“Hey Butcher, you’re, um, starting to freak me out a bit now. Where are you? Did Vought…did they do something to you? Just wondering what time, we need to, uh, send out a search party. Bet you’d really love that, wouldn’t you? You being Mr centre of attention. I don’t mind that, by the way. You have your charms…I suppose. Honestly, things are falling apart without you. Frenchie and Kimiko are missing still, M.M has barely spoken a word in hours and I’m…I’ve been better. Call me back to let me know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. And Butcher? Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous.”_

* * *

Alone and canary-less, Butcher is on the edge of doing something that is both stupidly dangerous and dangerously stupid. He’s inhaled a succession of shots like a bloke determined to drown in cheap booze. Somewhere along the way he’s passed over the threshold of pleasurably drunk into completely and utterly wankered and he’s stuck between dying for a piss and itching for a fight.

As he mulls over which urge is more pressing, he lights a ciggie and takes a drag. As he draws it deep into his lungs, he remembers his heart beating like a jackhammer, racing with joy and exhilaration. He’d just had sex with his wife in the back of a car in the dead of night, right under Vought’s nose, and she was resting against his chest, impossibly alive and real. They shared a post coital cigarette. He teased her about old habits dying hard. She poked fun at his beard, but he could tell she was intrigued by his new look. He pictured using his facial hair for all sorts of exciting, scandalous purposes. There would be time for that, he’d told himself. In that moment he’d been content just to hold her, to take things at her pace, and to share a smoke.

The trail of swirling grey dissipates and takes the memory with it. All he’s left with is rage. It feels like a Supe has taken a laser beam to his fuckin’ heart and has cut out a large, Becka shaped hole. Anger coils around him so tight he can barely see straight. His vision runs blood red. He needs to punch something. Whatever that something is, he needs punch it right this fuckin’ minute.

That settles that then. Fight first; his bladder could wait its turn. He finishes his latest shot, rises to his feet, and tosses the ciggy to the ground. The club is ram packed with all sorts of despicable dickheads. Butcher scours the crowd for a suitable candidate and settles on the fucker closest to the stage. He knows a cunt when he sees one and Ponytail Guy is categorically, without a doubt, a cunt with a capital C. 

When Butcher reaches the stage-front, he doesn’t stop to think, just rams his head against Ponytail Guy. Hard. The daft cunt stumbles and flounders, as useless as fish plucked from water. So, Butcher slams a fist into his windpipe, knocking him clean to the ground. With each punch Ponytail Guy becomes limper and limper, gawping, wide-eyed, and utterly unfit for purpose.

Then someone yanks Butcher backwards. _About fuckin’ time_ , he thinks, and turns to meet his new opponent. He’s wearing a classic Butcher shit-eating grin. His fists are raised and he’s about to knock the living daylights out of the person who pulled him out.

He doesn’t see the bottle coming. By the time he realises his error, glass is shattering over his skull. He tries to orientate himself but before he can get the chance a rush of bodies push him to the ground. Boots kick at him from all angles, landing with sickening crunches into his spine, his chest, his kidneys, and every other imaginable spot. There's not a part of him that isn't taking a beating. And Butcher doesn’t fight it, just lays there and accepts it, eating it up like punishment served on a shit-stained plate.

_Let it hurt,_ a vicious inner voice says, _it’s nothin’ short of what you deserve after tonight’s little performance. How could you be so fuckin’ stupid, Billy? What were you thinkin’, aye? Runnin’ your mouth like that. No wonder Becks doesn’t want you. She hates you. Despises you. Couldn’t even look at you, could she? Is it any wonder? You’re a pathetic cunt. Did you really think you could save ‘er? How could you? You can’t even save yourself. Even Hughie hates you and that kid loves everybody!_

Butcher pulls his arms defensively in front of his face but that doesn’t stop one of the pairs of feet from landing a walloping great blow to his cheek. His skull clatters in a way that skulls aren't made to clatter.

_I give up,_ is his last conscious thought, _what’s the fuckin’ point anymore?_ Everything bleeds to black and there’s nothing but perpetual pain and darkness. This time Butcher doesn’t have his canary to lead him back into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! Kudos and comments give me powers! Don't tell The Boys ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this chapter. Kudos and comments give me powers! Don't tell The Boys ;)


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